Rich Man's Son
by Darkover
Summary: Why Lewis Nixon joined the paratroops. There is friendship between Nixon and Winters, no slash.
1. Chapter 1

10

Title: "Rich Man's Son," Chapter 1 of 3

Author: Darkover, a.k.a. TheQueenly1

Disclaimer: I do not own "Band of Brothers," the miniseries. Of course I do not own any rights to the men themselves, as they were and are real people, and ones for whom I have very great admiration. It should be understood that this story is pure fiction. No offense is intended, and I fervently hope that none is taken. Nor am I making any money off of this, so please do not sue.

Rating: K, mostly because of a few curse words.

Summary: Why Lewis Nixon joined the paratroops. This story will show friendship between Nixon and Winters, no slash. Please read and review!

It was the second Sunday of the month, so he and Cathy were having dinner at his parents' house. That was how it worked; the first Sunday of each month they had dinner with Cathy's mother and father, the next with his parents, and so on, alternating Sundays. It was completely predictable, like every other aspect of his life. Spend a few hours at the office, an hour or so in the smoking room at the club; come home, kiss the Kid goodnight before she was put to bed by the nurse, have a drink or two, go out to dinner with Cathy; go to the theater, maybe with friends, maybe not. If it was a weekend, play a little golf at the club. Lewis Nixon did not like clubs, did not like golf, and he was not even certain how much he liked the people he and Cathy called friends. Most of them were simply friends by proximity: people of the same background who had attended the same schools and belonged to the same clubs, or who were business associates, or both. Now he sat at his parents' table as yet another Sunday dinner came to a close, wondering how his life had turned out like this.

Well, that was going to change, wasn't it?

Seeing his father reach for the bell to summon the maid to bring in brandy and cigars, Lewis Nixon said; "Wait a minute, will you, Dad? I have something I want to say, and Cathy and Mom should hear it, too."

His father frowned, but settled back into his chair without ringing the bell. "All right. What is it?"

"I've joined up."

"Joined what? The Knickerbocker Club? About time. I put you up for membership when you turned twenty-one, but better late than never, I suppose." Having dismissed his son's comment, the elder Nixon started to reach for the bell once more. His fingers had just closed around it when Lewis spoke again.

"No, Dad. I've joined the Army."

The bell clattered to the floor, jangling in spite of the thick carpet. Lewis' mother stared at her son. Cathy lost her habitual expression of well-bred boredom and appeared slightly amused, but not very interested, as if this did not affect her in the least. Stanhope Nixon sat up straight, leaned forward slightly, and glared at his son and heir.

"You did what?"

At that moment the door between the dining room and kitchen opened and the blonde maid—Lewis could never remember her name, even though he suspected his father was sleeping with her—entered the room, bearing the brandy snifter and humidor. She smiled at Stanhope, who spared her not a glance, only gesturing impatiently to her to put the items down on the table. Slightly affronted, she did so and departed.

"Well, that's admirable, Lewis," his mother said, and glanced apprehensively at her husband. "I'm sure we're all quite proud of you, aren't we, Stan?"

Ignoring his own wife, the elder Nixon transferred his glare to his daughter-in-law. "Did you know about this?"

Still with an expression of faint amusement, Cathy shook her well-coiffed head slightly. "No, I'm afraid this is yet another example of Lewis acting without thinking."

"Thank you for your support," Lewis could not resist saying to his wife.

She shrugged. "You didn't ask for my support before making your decision."

"And a damn fool decision it is," his father snapped. "Ladies, I think it's time you withdrew. I want to talk to my son alone."

"Stan—" Lewis' mother began, but she wilted under her husband's glare. She and Cathy rose from the table and departed quietly. Stanhope took a cigar from the humidor, cut off the end, lit it, and after taking a few angry puffs, resumed glaring at his son.

"Explain yourself, Lewis."

"What's to explain, Dad?" the younger Nixon said, aware of the undertone of casual mockery in his voice and equally aware of how much it would irritate his father, but seemingly unable to stop himself. "That's what you do, when you're a young man and your country has just been attacked, right? You join up."

"Don't give me that, boy." His father was turning brick-red from the neck up. "You're running away again, just as you've always done."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Lewis said, taking hold of the brandy snifter and pouring a drink for himself. He barely refrained from dropping it as his father slammed a fist onto the table.

"I'm talking about the fact that you never stick to anything. You were expelled from one prep school after another—"

"I was only expelled from one school, Dad," Lewis could not resist pointing out. "I ran away from the other one."

"Which just goes to show that you've failed or run away from everything you've ever tried. You dropped out of Yale, resigned your membership in two of our clubs—"

"Dad, we've been over this. I'm not crazy about clubs anyway, and those guys weren't people I would ever want to be friends with—"

"Friends! What the hell does that mean? What do you think it means to have a friend—that you love another man like a brother?" His father openly sneered at such a notion. "Being a member of the right clubs means you get to meet the right people, but you couldn't even do that, could you? Not that you know anything about business. At a time when most men would give their right arms to have a job, any kind of a job, much less one as good as the manager's position I gave you at the Nitration Works, you can't even do that. So because you're screwing up again, you're running away again. How the hell I ever managed to produce a son like you, I'll never know." Abruptly his father stood up. "Finish your drink. Jeffries will see you and Cathy out. I'll tell your mother goodnight for you." His father marched out of the room before Lewis could reply.

Lewis drank all the brandy that remained in the snifter. Cathy did the driving; they made the trip home in silence.

Basic training was not as difficult as he had anticipated. The physical demands of basic were nothing he could not handle; always a night owl, he had more trouble sleeping at night and getting up early than anything else. Military discipline was less arbitrary and more purposeful than the rules he had endured at the prep schools to which he had been sent, and even the food was better than what he had been apportioned at one such school. His education and his excellent performance on IQ tests sent him straight into O.C.S., which he almost enjoyed. He was soon promoted to second lieutenant.

And then the Army, in its infinite wisdom, had made him a military policeman, and he hated it. Lewis Nixon understood that M.P.s were necessary, but he still detested the duty. Most of his time was spent overseeing the arrests of men who were drunk, men who were guilty of things that were no worse than he had sometimes done when under the influence, but unlike him, such men did not have rich families to protect them from the consequences. It made him feel like a hypocrite. He also disliked many of his fellow M.P.s; too many of them wielded their authority with a heavy hand, reminding him of the prefects he had known and loathed at the prep schools he had attended.

But hell, I'm miserable here, too, he thought. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe it's just that I'm no good for anything. Maybe there's something wrong with me….

"Lieutenant Nixon! You got mail!"

Startled, he was jerked out of his thoughts by a magazine landing next to him on the bunk upon which he sat. The soldier delivering mail had already moved on. Nixon, as usual, had not bothered to appear at mail call. No one wrote to him, not even his wife as yet, and the Kid was too young to write. He wondered if she even completely understood that Daddy was gone. He looked down and saw a copy of LIFE Magazine. Evidently his subscription had followed him here. He picked it up; out fell a letter that had been tucked inside.

It was from his mother, which surprised him. She had been more understanding of his decision than his father had, or at least more forgiving, but Lewis had not believed she would write to him in defiance of his father's wishes. He was half right, he realized as he began to read; his mother had written on the sly, and would not write again without his father's accord. Reading one particular sentence made him sit up so quickly, however, that he struck his head hard on the overhead bunk. The nature of the words was such that he scarcely felt it.

"…Angry as you undoubtedly are at your father, dear, at least you must thank him for the fact that you will never have to face combat. He made arrangements for you to be a military policeman here in America, so you will never have to go overseas. A sensitive young man like you is unfit for army life, Lewis. Your father agrees with me; he has said many times that it would be a waste to put you in combat."

He dropped the letter, his hands shaking with combined shock and rage.

"He made arrangements for you to be a military policeman…"

Jesus Christ! My father is still controlling me, even here!

"…unfit for army life…"

Unfit. That's what my own parents think of me!

"…he believes it would be a waste to put you in combat."

This is all he believes I'm good for? Arresting drunks? I'm a waste at anything else?

Savagely, Lewis grabbed for the letter, intending to tear it in half. His hand fell on LIFE Magazine instead, and as he snatched it up, he saw that the cover story was about paratroopers. The photograph somehow pierced the anger that clouded his brain, and he began to read the article.

I'll volunteer for the airborne. Let Dad try and get me out of that!

At Camp Toccoa he met a tall red-haired man of the same rank as himself.

"Hello. I'm Winters, Richard D."

"Nixon, Lewis. Nixon is the last name." He watched the other man carefully; there was not reaction. Clearly the name "Nixon" meant nothing to the red-haired man, which was exactly how Lewis preferred it.

They shook hands. The red-haired man had a firm grip and was obviously strong, but his smile was surprisingly shy. "My friends call me Dick."

"Okay, Dick."

"What do your friends call you?"

"Nothing that's fit to repeat," Nixon replied smartly, and suddenly wondered why he said that. Maybe because by making a wisecrack, he did not have to admit, much less contemplate the fact, that he had no friends.

The other man's pale eyebrows climbed slightly, and Nixon said hastily; "Just kidding. My wife and family call me by my first name, but I've been 'Nixon' ever since I joined the Army. That's good enough."

Winters nodded. "That seems a little impersonal, though. How about 'Nix'? Or 'Lew?'"

"Either's good," he said, warming to the other. That was how it began, as simply as that.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: "Rich Man's Son," Chapter 2 of 3

Author: Darkover

Disclaimer: Please see Chapter One.

Rating: K

Summary: Why Lewis Nixon joined the paratroops.

Snow and ice. Extreme cold. Hunger. Darkness. Sudden violence, accompanied by overwhelming noise. Tree bursts. An ever-present undercurrent of anger, frustration, and fear. Death. All of it summed up in one word: Bastogne. Lewis Nixon, having just finished his nightly checkpoint rounds, slid down into the foxhole he shared with Dick Winters. Cold as it was, it was also just after 0300 hours, so he fully expected Winters to be asleep, but a familiar voice asked him; "Anything to report?"

"Just that there's no sign of Dike. Even Lipton doesn't know where the happy wanderer is."

"Perhaps I should rephrase that, Nix. Is there anything new to report?"

"That was dangerously close to humor, Dick. Watch yourself—you have a reputation to uphold." There was only silence from the man huddled next to him. Nixon sighed, his breath visible in the freezing air. "Nothing new, Dick. Except that the men, especially the noncoms, are happy—at least as much as anyone here can be—about the fact that Lt. Peacock is headed home for the bond drive."

"I can't blame them," Winters replied. "No one tries harder than poor Peacock, but the Sergeants have been carrying him on their backs ever since he was assigned to Easy."

Both men were momentarily silent after that remark. Nixon edged closer to his shivering friend, trying to share body heat. He did not expect any more conversation. Not only was Richard Winters laconic by nature, but a frozen foxhole just after three a.m. was hardly a place or a time conducive to chitchat. So he was surprised when, after a moment, he heard his friend say quietly: "Lew?"

"Yeah?"

"Why didn't you want to go back home?"

For a second, the question made no sense. "Home," to Lewis Nixon, had come to mean anywhere Dick Winters was. If that consisted of a foxhole dug in the freezing earth, so be it. He seldom even thought about New Jersey any more, or about the people he had left behind. He felt closer to the man alongside him than he had ever felt to anyone in his life, even his own wife and family. The closest he could come to saying this aloud, however, was to say flippantly; "Hell, Dick. When my Kid asks me what I did in the war, I don't want to have to tell her I just spent my time banging the drums to sell war bonds."

"Nix." Winters' voice was low, but the hint of reproof in it was discernable. Lewis was lying, and Dick knew it. This made Nixon feel ashamed, so almost in spite of himself he began to give the truthful explanation.

"Because I can see my father's hand in this, Dick. Do you think it's a coincidence that a rich man's son was the one pulled to perform duty stateside? He manipulates things to get what he wants."

"Well, that's understandable, I suppose. Anyone who has a son overseas would want to see him home for Christmas. I'm sure your family misses you."

Winters stopped because Nixon was shaking his head. "That's what you think. My father is all about control. He's a very rich man, and he's accustomed to getting his own way. That's what this is all about, not because he has any affection for me. I'm a disappointment to him."

Winters shifted slightly, and by the light of the moon, Nixon caught a glimpse of blue eyes staring at him. "How can he be disappointed in you?"

Nixon almost laughed out loud, because he could tell that his friend meant the question seriously. It warmed him, even in this freezing hell, to know that Winters did not consider him to be a disappointment or a failure, and did not understand why anyone else would. "Well, Dick, in case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly a rousing success."

"You're the company intelligence officer. That's not a position they give to goof-offs."

"Yeah, I'm the Map Guy." Lewis Nixon shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "I ought to be good at that. At least I'm finally getting some use out of my expensive education, as my father might say."

"Maybe you should stop listening to your father quite so much," Dick observed quietly. "He isn't here, Lew. You are."

"If he had his way, I wouldn't be here, either. And not because he's worried about me. He's just worried that I'll screw up." Nixon shifted, groping for his silver flask. He suddenly wanted a drink rather badly.

"Then he needn't worry at all," Winters said, his voice low but firm and clear. "You still haven't answered my question, Nix."

"I thought I had, Dick. Life is better here than it is for me back in New Jersey."

Winters pointedly looked around their surroundings, then back at Nixon with such obvious disbelief that the latter could not help laughing. It was a short, hitching laugh that conveyed more pain than amusement, but it was still a laugh.

"That's why I joined the army, my friend," he said, taking a swallow from his silver flask and then replacing it. "To see the world."

"You've already seen it. You did more traveling before you were out of your teens than I've done in my entire life," his friend pointed out. "Forgive me if I find it hard to believe that this is the best part. If it is, then when the war is over, I'm heading straight back to my family's home as fast as I can go, and I'll never leave it again."

"Geez, Dick. Either I'm drunker than I thought, or you're on a roll tonight." Nixon would happily have let the conversation die, but the blue eyes continued to regard him steadily. "All right. I joined up mostly because I couldn't stand the way my life was going, and I wanted to change it."

"You couldn't have done that in a less drastic way?" Winters' tone was neither incredulous nor derisive; he was trying to understand.

"No." For a moment, Nixon stared up at the night sky, gazing at the stars. "You think that having a lot of money gives you more choices in life, but not always," he said, much more quietly and without a trace of his usual mockery. "My life was decided upon and planned from the day I was born."

"Is that why you joined the airborne, too?"

"Sort of," Nixon admitted. "Wash-outs are sent to the M.P.s, you know that, and thanks to my father's interference that was what I was assigned to anyway, so if I joined and then failed, I would've been no worse off. But I wanted to try, Dick. I had to find out if I was anything more than a rich man's son."

"I see," Winters said, and was quiet for a moment.

"Why did you join the Army, Dick?" Nixon asked curiously, suddenly realizing he had never asked his friend this before. "Did you join up after Pearl Harbor?"

"No. I joined right after I graduated college, a few months before Pearl, because I had to fulfill my military service. Truthfully, I just wanted to get it over with. But when I saw paratroopers for the first time, I knew they were true soldiers. If I had to serve in the Army, that was what I wanted to be. They were lean, mean, strong, and tough—clearly the best."

"Dick Winters had to be the best. Why am I not surprised?"

Nixon grinned at his friend, and Winters smiled back. The two men huddled close together in the dark, sharing warmth that was both physical and emotional, each knowing that he had found a brother.


	3. Chapter 3

7

Title: "Rich Man's Son" (3/3)

Author: Darkover

Rating: K

Disclaimer: Please see Chapter One.

Summary: The story of why Lewis Nixon joined the paratroops.

"I don't have anything to say to her," Nixon said sullenly. "Just to my dog, and he can't read. So what's the point of writing?"

"Nix." For a man who didn't talk much, Dick Winters could put more expression into a single word than any man Lewis Nixon ever knew. Besides, there was no escaping that blue-eyed stare of Dick's. "She's still your wife."

"Not for much longer. That's the whole point, isn't it?"

"And she's the mother of your child," Winters continued. "Write to her. Tell her something, even if it's to go jump in a lake. Give her a divorce, if that's what she wants. After all, you don't really want to go on like this, do you?"

After a moment, Nixon grudgingly nodded. "Okay. You have a point. I'll start the letter to her sometime today."

"Good." Winters rose, draping a towel across his broad shoulders. "Now, speaking of jumping in lakes, I'm off for a morning swim." He clapped a hand on Lewis' shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. Nixon looked up, gratified and a bit surprised. Dick was the kindest man Nixon ever knew, but he wasn't exactly the touchy-feely type. Winters gave his friend one of those brief, sweet smiles as he added gently; "It'll be okay, Lew. You'll see. Everything happens for a reason." Then he departed.

Nixon watched him go, then got up and went rummaging through Winters' footlocker for more Vat 69. Unlike the other officers, since VE Day Nixon was drinking more than ever. As he refilled his flask and took a long swallow, he began thinking about the passage of time. Recently, he and Welsh had almost come to blows when he, Nixon, told Harry to shut up about Kitty; she wasn't going to wait for him, the "Dear John" letter was probably already in the mail. Luckily, Dick had been around to defuse the situation, although in a way, that made Lewis feel even worse. Dick should not have been put in the middle like that. Lewis had not really wanted to insult Harry. He had just been more hung over than usual, and although he would never have admitted it, he was jealous of the fact that Harry had a woman who would wait for him.

Harry wanted to go home, marry Kitty Grogan, and make babies, which sounded like a good plan. Dick Winters wanted to go back to his family, get a job, find a nice girl to marry, and settle down on a little piece of land somewhere. This was also a good plan; both were versions of the plans most of the men of Easy Company were making, officers and enlisted alike—now that they were in Austria, Hitler was dead, and it appeared as if they might actually survive this war. The only man without such plans was Lewis Nixon, unless getting drunk regularly qualified as such. He was undoubtedly the only man in the entire U.S. Army who did not want the war to end.

It was not that Nixon enjoyed warfare—God, no! He'd had enough of the mud, the blood, the misery, the death, the killing, and the horrific waste of it all to last him the rest of his life. He'd had enough of the Army, too, for although it had served its purpose in allowing him to prove that he was capable of some accomplishment—he had survived airborne training under Herbert Sobel, and also endured Bastogne, if nothing else—he did not have the kind of dedication and sterling sense of duty that was required of a career army officer. Richard Winters did, though, and that was what Nixon found disturbing. Although he did not know officially, Nixon was enough of an intelligence officer—even as a demoted one—to have knowledge of rumors. He was aware that his best friend had been approached by Colonel Sink, who wanted Richard Winters to make a career of the military. Nixon knew his best friend well enough to believe that Dick was not seriously considering the idea. Nevertheless, whether Dick stayed in the Army, or whether he continued on back to Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, the odds were such that Lewis Nixon would never see him again, unless it was at a reunion every twenty-five years or so. That was what Nixon could not bear. He was losing the only real friend he ever had, and there seemed to be no way to stop it.

Nixon reviewed his own options. He had no real desire to go back to New Jersey. What was the point? To resume his former, stultifying life where it had left off? Oh, not quite: he wouldn't be a married man any more, mustn't forget that. Cathy was pressing him to sign the divorce papers. His parents had also divorced as well, and his father had married The Blonde, as Lewis Nixon thought of her. His father was right about at least one thing; when it came to being a business manager, or any kind of a leader, he, Lewis, was not really cut out for the job. Lewis did not enjoy telling other people what to do with their lives. He barely knew what to do with his own.

But there was one man who would do well in that position, wasn't there? Winters.

He would do well in a position of authority; indeed, after his experience as leader of Easy Company, Lewis doubted if Dick could just go back and resume his former life, any more than he himself could….

"Package for Lieutenant Winters!"

Nixon looked around, blinking. A young private—some replacement whose name Nixon did not recall—was standing in the doorway, holding a package. "Is Lt. Winters here, sir? I was instructed to deliver this."

"Leave it here, Private. I'll see to it that he gets it."

The younger man hesitated. "Are you Captain Nixon, sir?"

"Yes, Private, I am."

The private grinned hugely. "That's okay, then! Oh, sorry, sir," the youngster hastened to add, seeing Nixon's bemused look and mistakenly believing the officer thought him guilty of disrespect. "It's just that I was told to make sure Lt. Winters got this, only nobody seems to know where he is. But everyone said Captain Nixon would know, 'cause the two of them are always together."

Nixon stared at the young trooper as if the latter had spoken a prophecy. "He's down by the lake, Private, having a morning swim." Nixon held out a hand. "I was just headed that way. I'll take the package to him."

"Thank you, sir!" The trooper handed over the package and gave Nixon a salute, even though such niceties were not required indoors, and left.

Nixon gazed down at the thick package, then impulsively rose, tucking it under his arm. His best friend had just told him that everything happens for a reason. As usual, his friend was right.

Smiling happily, his hangover almost forgotten, Nixon started down the trail to the lake. Dick Winters would have a good job to come home to after the war; Dad would be happy to have a reliable manager at last; and not least of all, he, Lewis Nixon, would be happy, because he would not be separated from his best friend. He would talk to Dick, make him the offer. Not a bad proposal, all things considered; it would make three people happy. His friend still had to agree to the proposal, but it was such a perfect solution that surely Dick would say yes. Maybe he, Lewis Nixon, was good at doing things right when it counted.

In fact, he realized as he caught a glimpse of red hair shining in the morning sun, he had achieved something, after all. It wasn't that he had become a paratrooper; nor was it surviving D-Day, or even Bastogne. It was the fact that he had formed a friendship with the finest man that he or anyone else was ever likely to meet: Richard Winters. Whether

he had proven anything to his father, to Cathy, or to anyone else no longer mattered, and he wondered why it had ever seemed important. He was more than just a rich man's son. As long as he and his best friend were together, he could face anything, and even make a new life for himself, as well.


End file.
